Quotes About Reflection

Several times I ran into a crowd of [redacted], dozens of them. They were not like the other [redacted] that sometimes gathered together and sometimes separated--this crowd stayed consistently together as they walked, a little like the moon's reflection on water, which keeps floating in a discrete shape no matter how the waves tug.

La casetta si sta allontanando e i binari sono volati via. Continuo a perdermi inseguendo le mie tracce, e mi stanco. Mi siedo su una pietra, serafico come un albero. E i miei ricordi sembrano dei maratoneti mentre corrono al mondo che ho lasciato.

Chaque fois que je lis ces grandes œuvres, je me laisse entraîner par elles. Je m'accroche à elles comme un enfant craintif au vêtement de sa mère. Je me règle sur leur pas et j'avance tout doucement dans le fleuve du temps. C'est un voyage agréable où mille sensations se mêlent. Elles m'emmènent avec elles et me laissent rentrer seul, et de retour à la maison je me rends compte qu'elles sont pour toujours avec moi.

This "me" of ten years before lay down amid the leaves and long grass and slept for two whole hours. During this time a few ants crawled up my leg, but even in my deep sleep my finger accurately flicked them off. I felt as if I had come to a shore, and the echoing shouts of an old man poling a bamboo raft seemed to reach my ears from far away. I awakened from my dream, and

A fine giornata, la mia giacca di seta era sdrucita, le spalle erano intrise di sangue. Camminavo da solo verso casa, camminavo e piangevo, piangevo e camminavo. Pensavo: ho trasportato quelle monete per un giorno solo e già mi sento a pezzi, chissà quanti tra i miei antenati si sono ammazzati di fatica, per guadagnare quel denaro. Solo allora compresi perché mio padre avesse voluto a tutti i costi monetine di rame e non pezzi d'argento: voleva che capissi com'è duro far soldi.

Recordar el pasado o añorar la tierra natal son, en realidad, maneras de recurrir a algo tranquilizador cuando estamos desorientados en la vida real.

A month alone behind closed doors forgotten books, remembered, clear again. Poems come, like water to the pool Welling, up and out, from perfect silence

Ciddi bir ?ekilde yaralanan kimse, hayat?n? kurtaracak sarg? bezi temiz midir, diye sormaz.

Is there not a sort of remorse that precedes sin? Was it remorse at the very fact that I existed?

He had never looked forward to the wisdom and other vaunted benefits of old age. Would he be able to die young—and if possible free of all pain? A graceful death—as a richly patterned kimono, thrown carelessly across a polished table, slides unobtrusively down into the darkness of the floor beneath. A death marked by elegance.

I want to make a poem of my life.

Separation is painful, but so is its opposite. And if being together brings joy, then it is only proper that separation should do the same in its own way.

In the pale light of daybreak the gravestones looked like so many white sails that would never again be filled with wind, sails that, too long unused and heavily drooping, had been turned into stone just as they were. The boats' anchors had been thrust so deeply into the dark earth that they could never again be raised.

The men who indulged in nocturnal thought, it seemed to me, had without exception dry, lusterless skins and sagging stomachs. They sought to wrap up a whole epoch in a capacious night of ideas, and rejected in all its forms the sun that I had seen. They rejected both life and death as I had seen them, for in both of these the sun had had a hand.

very often a man's whole life alters course because of a moment's hesitation. That instant is like a fold made down the middle of a sheet of paper. In it, the underside becomes upmost, and what was once visible is hidden forever.

J'éprouvais le besoin de commencer à vivre. Commencer à vivre ma vraie vie ? Même si ce devait être une simple mascarade et pas du tout ma vraie vie, le temps était venu où il me fallait prendre le départ et s'avancer en traînant lourdement mes pas.

They had laid the tender, down-ruffled little bird on a platter and appeared now to be pondering a way to eat out its heart without causing it distress.

I have been self-reliant to the point of sadness. I wonder when I first fell into the habit of washing my hands after each brush with humanity, lest I be contaminated.

It's odd how one's memories of youth turn out so bleak. Why does the business of growing up—one's recollections of growth itself—have to be so tragic? I still haven't found the answer. I doubt if anybody has. When I finally reach that stage at which the placid wisdom of old age... occasionally descends on a person, then I too may suddenly discover that I understand. But I doubt whether, by that time, understanding will have much point.

Daydreaming is not an intellectual process but rather an escape from intellectualism.

Once I had started my solitude I realised anew that it was easy for me to become accustomed to this state and that the most effortless existence for me was in fact one in which I was not obliged to speak to anyone. My fretful attitude to life left me. Each dead day had its charm

To be half-clever was the worst I could have done.

Da li je bolest, u stvari, samo ubrzavanje života?

At such times I felt as though I was drenched up to my neck in the existence that was myself.